


so let it tempt no body new

by izzetboilerworks



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, Sex Bet, is this why it got infected in the first place?!, not me, unsanitary use of belly button rings, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 07:51:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16384172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzetboilerworks/pseuds/izzetboilerworks
Summary: Chris Sale may or may not have a belly button ring, but this needs to be explored anyways. This is also not really redeemable.





	so let it tempt no body new

**Author's Note:**

> Because I crack myself up, title is from "Complaint of the Skeleton to Time" by Allen Ginsberg. 
> 
> Also if my World Series wish comes true, I won't have to write a second part to this.

Chris isn't attractive. He's got, honestly, a face only a mother could love. And if Ian was being honest-- and he usually was-- there wasn't much to look at at all. Chris Sale epitomizes the descriptor "bean pole" by looking like a completely straight line with a bad haircut and a beard. 

But his looks really aren't what pull you in, anyways. It's the intensity, the _skill_. Of course, having been used against him however many times a year, Ian's seen Chris's stuff more than a few times. It wasn't like he was adjusting his cup in the batter's box or any shit-- but sometimes after. 

It doesn't help that Sale was _insane_.

Or maybe it does-- way back when, just coming up to the majors, Naps always told him if he was gonna fuck around with someone, it should be a crazy chick because they were wild in bed. Naturally, this never occurred to Ian in accord with Sale. 

But now that he's faced with this-- well, _maybe_. 

Fact of, was, it was unexpected enough, just the glimmer of silver against pale skin and light hair, almost so fast of a wink that you'd miss it. 

Ian wants to make fun of him for it. It's the sort of piercing he more associates with teenage girls trying to rebel against their parents. But there's also so much to make fun of. Sometimes, he wants to text his old teammates about it, or slip a pair of binoculars in Sale's luggage while he's not looking. 

They've got a _history_ and they're not real keen on one another. 

Sale is insane. It's verified. The spy thing, the jersey thing-- and _God_ a belly button ring. 

Ian certainly should keep his mouth sealed shut. And, of course, the one person he could have reminisced and joked about it with is dead to him, but that's a story for a different day. He considers, briefly, texting one of his old teammates, but there's a sting there too and he just can't quite bring himself to it. 

So instead, he keeps it in his head, the little upturn of a smile when he sees him in the clubhouse. Smirks at him, maybe. And Chris looks at him like he's a piece of trash and Ian has to refrain from making binoculars at him, just to be a douche. 

(Although he's fairly certain Sale knows it's him whose been pranking him.) 

Still-- crazy and Ian is stressed and _intrigued_ ; he won't lie. 

They're world series bound, pretty soon going to be suiting up and back for one last series before the end of the season. It's bitter sweet. 

It's the last night before and there was practice, meetings, gameplanning. Sale is back, is _better_ , is slated to start game one. So if he's _Okay_ then it's fine to needle him about it. Sale is sitting alone, watching film on the Dodgers's batters likely, and Ian sits down next to him with more food than he necessarily needs.

Sale is drinking black coffee and there's an untouched bagel. 

Ian watches Chris's eyes track the screen as he eats, and for a moment, it's almost companionable the way they sit together. 

"Can I help you?" Chris's tone is acerbic, acidic like the dark roast, and he'd probably be snarling if it wasn't so damned early in the morning. 

"No?" Ian replies and Chris frowns at him. "A guy can't eat?" 

Chris's gaze moves from the film, to the nearly empty dining hall around them, and then he fixes Ian with a suspicious look. 

He doesn't go back to his film. Ian does his best to be as annoying as possible just by being there in his space. 

It seems to work as Chris is bristling like a cat beside him, trying to keep focused on his film while wanting to blow up. Sometimes it's too easy and Ian wonders if it really is _that_ easy. 

People, people talk when they're drunk, and Alex Avila loved to talk. He was so quiet and level on the playing field but get a few drinks in him and he started talking like a middle-aged woman with like five kids. It was hilarious and brilliant. 

Avila definitely fucked Sale. Possibly more than once. 

(Avila has a solid head on his shoulders, but pitchers were insane, catchers were _worse_ and while he doesn't wanna think about Avila bending Sale over the thought springs to his mind because he definitely heavily implied it. 

He never mentioned the fucking _belly ring_ though.) 

It'd be disingenuous to say that that wasn't on Ian's mind. In fact, it'd been taking up headspace he should have been using on other things. But god, where did he even get it pierced at. Sale was zero percent body fat. He wasn't even that fit, soft-- for a value of the word-- everywhere except his arms. 

Chris is flat planes and sharp angles and long limbs. 

And he's _seen_ it but not really. He needs to. 

"I have a favor to ask." 

Chris huffs like he was expecting something and Ian stands, finishing his breakfast and gesturing for Sale to follow. Chris frowns more, brow furrowing. Kinsler waits and Chris stands, and it feels like a victory even though they're not even halfway there yet. 

Both of them give their all to the team so they're there early. Outside, there's a familiar sound of bat on ball cracking, they're close enough to the dugout as he guides Chris through and then past, to the bowels of Fenway. 

Alone, nearer to the basement levels, where the hum of the generators and other things is almost tangible in the walls. There's only dim lights which doesn't really lend itself well. But there's other ways to tell. Ian nods approvingly once he's determined they're alone. 

"How're you feeling?" Ian asks. 

"I'm fine; can we get this over with? I'm busy." 

Ian nods. He can be perfunctory, maybe. It depends. Chris is wearing a t-shirt, it's soft, some kind of grey. Ian watches him for a moment, then nods. 

"Lift your shirt up." 

_"Why?"_

"I wanna see it." 

Chris's mouth presses into a thin line and makes his lips nearly disappear but he reaches down and his long fingers curl at the hem of the shirt and he lifts. Ian can see it in the low lights, now he knows what he's looking for. In the midst of curling light hair, against pale smooth skin. Ian's fingers feel itchy. 

"Can I touch it?" Ian asks. Consent is important. Chris huffs again. 

"I guess." 

Ian reaches out and brushes his fingers over Chris's stomach, over the trail of hair, over the cold metal. It is kind of cold, still. Of course, the zero percent body fat, his skin's a little cool too. Or maybe Ian's fingers are on fire. 

Chris hisses a breath in through his teeth and Ian can feel the goosebumps spring up all over his skin. His dark eyes getting darker, his hands curling into fists. Ian makes the track with his fingers again, light, almost airy, and he's sure that Chris makes a sound. 

Nothing verifiable, but yeah-- even over the sound of the building. 

"Looks good." Ian's sure he's imagining how thick his voice sounds right now. His heart can't be beating that fast. 

"Yeah?" Chris asks, his voice lilts a little. It sounds different. 

"Yeah." 

There's the hum of not quite silence. 

"Feels good." Chris mumbles and he ducks his head. Chris flushes, splotchy and uneven. Ian's not sure what the boldness, or the desire, comes from but he slides down to his knees in front of Sale, whose stomach muscles jump and he's sure he could see the movement of all of his muscles beneath thin skin. 

He looks up at Chris, who is looking down at him, holding his breath. Ian doesn't know what he's doing or _why_. Because maybe Sale is crazy, _maybe_ , but Ian is definitely fucking insane. 

Ian leans in, touches the tip of his tongue to the metal ring and commits fully. He gets Chris's hair in his mouth, but it's worth it with the way Chris jerks a little, like he's put his hand on a hot stove. 

Chris slides his hand into Ian's hair and it feels -- well it's good, weird, but good. Ian braces himself with his hands against Chris's hips and it's definitely not where he was thinking about going with this, but he tastes the salt and a faint metallic taste and-- there's something there definitely. 

Not that Ian's going to chase that thought to it's logical conclusion. Sale is shuddering a little, his fingers clutching in Ian's hair, nails digging into his scalp. Ian pulls back and looks up at Sale, sitting back on his haunches. 

It's not difficult, from this angle, to see the way that Sale is pressed against his jeans. 

"While you're down there--" Chris starts. 

"Not on your fucking _life_." Ian levers himself to his feet and flicks Sale in the nose. "Well, maybe if you win tomorrow." He flashes him a toothy grin. 

Chris is trying not to react, he can _see it_. Chris slides his shirt down and holds his fist out, Ian knocks his knuckles into Chris's. 

"Deal."


End file.
